"I'm so tired of
never being taken seriously.

Can't be doing with wasting time
what am I doing with my life?
You need to find your own
peace of mind. Everybody knows you're fucking intelligent
so why do you feel the need to please?"

~Laura Marling~

Airic:

I simply couldn't help guessing the back story of every patient or medic, so that I might entertain my finicky attention span. I flipped through their lives like the secretary flipped through files not meant for her eyes, and like the janitor with impending Alzheimer's flipped through his keys. St. Bart's Hospital had its variety of stories just like anywhere else - the burning smell of disinfectant was the only thing new.

After about ten minutes of people watching, I picked up an old edition of The London Times on a coffee table that was bombarded with European tabloids and medical brochures for the worried kin of patients. It struck me that the gauche waiting room was arranged by a left handed person: the coffee table was on the left side of the chairs, leaving a gap on the right; the floor lamp's knob was placed comfortably for a left-y and a children's whiteboard had markers taped to its port side.

I briefly scanned the front page article bearing a collage of charred buildings with "Chain Bombings of Baker Street" in bold. That was irrelevant to me due to the fact I was looking for a flat rather than a juicy terrorist read. Coming from Balbriggan, I had no family or friends within London's 100 km radius willing to take me in, except Greg Lestrade. He was married, though, and would not have me crashing into his family, so he promised me a good living arrangement.

We met - rather he found me - working in a big town bakery, oddly enough. I found that he was from London in Dublin on business; if I was correct, he was scouting for some much needed interns back at Scotland Yard. He saw some talent in me and offered to sponsor my tuition at my desired school, Le Cordon Bleu. I was absolutely baffled as to why a man of the law enforcement would care about a young girl's aspiration to become a humble cook. His behavior mystified me. I sensed nothing sinister, for he didn't have the heart, but I figured that it didn't matter as long as he paid for my education.

Lestrade said he had to run an errand before showing me my headquarters, but after a few minutes of waiting in St. Bart's lobby, I began to grow radically impatient. I grumbled bitterly in my head. What could be so entertaining, so immensely important in the adjacent lab he had slipped into, leaving outside? Out of my oppressing curiosity of what he was up to, I crept toward the lab door and listened as my father's voice filled my ears. "Curiosity killed the cat, Airic." I knew I was always the cat, and I knew someday I would have to pay, but I didn't care. As long as I acquired some knowledge, some tidbit of a revealed secret, my wellbeing mattered little.

Peeking through the square foot window, I saw Lestrade facing away from me. He was talking to someone - anxiously, I might add. His fingers were tapping and he was slightly rocking back and forth. I could not see who he was talking to because of the angle of the window combined with my feminine height.

"How are your… studies? Coming along?" he asked plainly while running his hands through his silver hair.

Silence.

"Listen, I - uh -I've met someone."

Silence.

"I think it might be good if you met 'em," he tried again, this time succeeding a response.

"I've explained this before, Lestrade. I don't date. Dating is boring, and I am much too busy," said a monotonous voice.

"Not a date, as a partner. She's really an intelligent person, and I think she could possibly be good for us."

"I work alone," the arrogant voice said bluntly, enunciating in his still low voice "alone".

A foolish part of me took this as my cue to enter the lab. I slowly slipped into the room, almost unnoticed until spotted by the icy, blue eyes of the "other voice".

"Ah," said Lestrade with a relieved expression. Walking toward the two, I glanced at the man, his paperwork, his cufflink, his phone and then returned my gaze to him. He sat up straight as a board with his large, spidery hands clasped in front of him. His skin was as ivory as sun bleached bone which was complimented by his pale rose tinted lips and tousled, black hair. I was taken aback by his piercing eyes; they seemed to paralyze me as he looked me up and down and once again let them meet mine. I started to form a smile as I noted his gaping expression, like that of a deer in headlights.

Lestrade took my hand and announced with pride, "This is Airic O'Connor." The man still glared as if in a supernatural trance cast by Hecate herself. "Airic, this is -"

"-Sherlock Holmes," I chimed in.

Lestrade nodded with a proud grin and leaned back on the abaft table. The man, Mr. Holmes, flashed a brief beam but then sat on his stool, turning his focus to his microscope.

"Exactly how long did you boast of me?" Holmes inquired in a tone that was starting to irk me.

"I told her nothing about you. She's quite smart, Sherlock." I was enjoying this moment in the spotlight, though I knew I couldn't possibly play Clue when there were flats to be purchased and school things to be gathered.

Holmes lifted his head from his microscope and gasped. "Oh… I see. So you're a proper genius, as well?" he retorted, seeping with sarcasm.

In one instant, I was filled with the most hateful pride and ill malign. This man that had hardly known me for a minute was judging me – more underestimating, I suppose. Well, I could prove myself quick enough.

"I know that you're some sort of detective, but not a normal one because the police only come to you when they're in need of it, which appears to be often, judging by the size of your ego. I also know that you're antisocial. You choose to be alone at work because your roommate left you alone at home, and with them gone, you thought that work would pass the time. He is the closest thing to a friend you have, but yet you always tend demean him. People can't stand you, because you can see right through them, which drove you to be a sociopath of the highest means. Right now, the only person who believes you can show affection is… a woman – no, a landlady, but things can change."

Holmes' face read blank like the page of a schizophrenic novelist. I curtly decided to carry out the burn with one last blow.

"Don't doubt that anyone can be as intelligent as you, Mr. Holmes."

"- Sherlock," he cut in.

"Who knows? It's a big world out there and it's full of plenty smart people." I took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

I took no time to observe his face, for I knew I had stolen his pride and filled him with festering insecurities. I strode out the door knowing I was the winner in a battle of wits, but I could derive no satisfaction from it. It was not my character to discourage, and realizing my cruelty, my eyes began to blur slightly. I would not free those weak tears, though. Not one scrap of empathy would I ever shed for Sherlock Holmes.

I have posted this before, but I honestly wanted to make this the absolute best I could. Please, please review and tell me how it's going. I need your help, and you DO have a voice.

-Rath de 'ort